Where Are You?
by LCFC
Summary: He is leaving hospital with no memory and no one seems to know him Who is the mysterious drunk who helps him out? And why does he seem so familiar? Spoilers for season 2. Assumes Sam & Dean somehow wiped the FBI database!
1. Chapter 1

**Where are you?**

_I own nothing – Kripe owns them._

Today he is leaving hospital; it should be a moment of triumph, of joy, but he feels empty and frightened; lost and alone.

There is a huge gap where his memory should be; a black hole; a gaping abyss. He sits on the edge of his bed, brow furrowed, searching through the fog for something, anything that will tell him who he is and what he is doing here.

They found him on the edge of the road. He had been a victim, they thought, of a hit and run. There was a swelling on his brain, an excess of fluid. They had shaved his head, put in a shunt, saved his life. They seemed pleased; explaining that they had prevented brain damage and that he should be happy. He stared at them, perplexed, if a great fucking hole in his memory wasn't damage he didn't know what was.

They didn't even know how old he was; the doctors guessing between 30 to 35. The nurses liked to flirt with him and, when he looked in the mirror, he could understand why. It would be false modesty to pretend that the face before him wasn't pleasing. He could see high cheekbones, full lips and bright green eyes. Freckles smattered across a perfect nose and his hair was dark blond and spiked. He flirted back with the nurses, enjoying it somehow; it felt right, like something he might always do.

The worse thing was that no one came for him. In the six months in which he'd been in hospital no one had been near him, asked about him. When they first found him they had put up posters '_Do you know this man?' _and circulated them around all the local shops and in the local newspaper. His face had appeared on TV and on the back of milk cartons but nothing. Didn't he have a family? Didn't he have anyone who actually cared?

They had even searched the police and FBI databases but nothing. He didn't even have a criminal past; hell he didn't even have a past at all. He was unknown, unwanted, alone.

His therapist was kind. She helped him to cope with the black hole that used to be his brain. He could walk, talk, and function and, for that he should be grateful. She asked him to choose a name; something that would give him an identity. He thought for a while and chose the name John. He didn't know why, he knew it wasn't his name but it seemed familiar, right. He couldn't think of a surname so ended up being called John Smith. A common name for an uncommon situation.

His therapist got him a job at the local garage; it appeared that he was good with his hands, good with cars and a keen worker. He was a perfectionist and didn't mind working late or at weekends. He managed to rent himself a nice little apartment and spent his spare time there. He cooked himself meals for one in the microwave and watched the tiny colour TV that he'd brought himself. His life was routine and simple, but it didn't feel right somehow. He felt uneasy; unsettled as if a normal life was something rare and intangible.

He suffered from nightmares; strange, disjointed. He could hear a voice shouting at him, cold and angry "What does this mean I'm gonna go dark side" and pleading with him "Promise me if I ever turn into anything I'm not…" the voice was faceless and the statements it made meaningless and John wondered if he had heard it on the TV or maybe at the movies.

And then there was his love for classic cars. He would buy magazines, borrow books from the library and work on any of the muscle cars that came into the garage. He particularly loved the Chevy Impalas and would read as much as he could about them, gleaning information, wishing that he had one of his own.

At the weekends he would sometimes go out and eat. Only at diners but it gave him some company and made a change from his micro-waved dinners. He often flirted with the waitresses and brought one or two of them home. If he felt guilty in the morning he would try and forget it, put it from his mind, figuring that it would be bad to start a relationship – cos lets face it – who wanted a man without a memory, with no past and no real certain future.

There was a liquor store on the way back from diner and he decided to buy himself a six pack. It was late and the store was about to close. He exchanged a few words with the guy behind the counter and, six pack under his arm, left the store as the lights went out.

There was a man, half lying in the alcove, his large frame taking up all the space. John shuffled by, eyeing the man suspiciously. The scent of alcohol and weed emanated from the man's body and he swayed, unsteadily, his eyes, under shaggy hair, blurry and half mast. John put out his hands to steady the man and felt large fingers clasp around his arms. The man was huge, at least four or five inches taller than him and his body, despite its current state, was firm and muscled. Wavering eyes fixed on John's face and the man's breath, stale with drink, gusted into his nostrils "You got anything man?" the voice was slurred, soft "You know – help me out here"

"Nothing" John wanted to pull away "Leave me alone"

"Oh shit" the man was swaying now, his mouth moving, his eyes half closed "I'm seeing things – fuck – seeing things – you're dead – you're fucking dead" and with that he keeled over, his full weight catching John and taking him down.

John phoned 911. He felt that someone must have done that for him and this guy needed help. He sat on the floor, the guy's head in his lap and stared into his ravaged face, wondering what might bring a young man like this to his knees. He felt strange; his head reeling. The man had spoken directly to him; he had appeared to recognise him and that voice, where the hell had he heard that voice before.

He rode along in the ambulance. The guy had no identification and John knew how that felt, he'd been there. He waited in ER whilst the nurses wheeled the guy away on a gurney. He felt tired, worn and he wished that he had cracked open at least one of the tins in his six pack. Some of the nurses recognised him, they knew him when he had been in hospital and they seemed pleased to see him. They let him stay, gave him coffee and a bagel and made sure that he had a chair to sit on and a magazine to read.

The doctor was young and tired looking. He gestured to John "Are you family?"

"No – I brought him in"

"Well he's doing as well as expected – he had enough alcohol and cannabis in his system to floor a horse" he smiled, wearily "But we're pumping his stomach and then we can give him some antibiotics and some glucose – do you want to see him?"

"Sure – just to check that he's ok" John nodded; lets face it, he didn't have anything else to do"

The young man was half asleep when John entered. He was hooked up to drips and IV's and he looked pale and wan. John was shocked how boyish and vulnerable he looked. Soft hazel eyes peered out from dark lashes and a large hand moved restlessly on the sheets "I need more drugs" the voice was hoarse, harsh and hauntingly familiar "I'm seeing things – still"

The eyes closed and the man's breathing evened out. John stood staring for a minute, heart pounding as he remembered where he had heard that voice before…

He had heard it in his dreams.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Where are you? **

**Chapter Two**

_I own nothing – Kripe owns them._

He didn't know why; but he stayed by the young man's bed through the night, ringing work the next day, pretending sickness.

The young man's sleep was restless; he tossed and turned his head, hands plucking at the quilt, eye-lids flickering. Occasionally he would mumble something, a name, soft and faint, so faint that John couldn't hear it, but said with such passion that John couldn't help but wonder who this person was that upset the young man so.

Around lunchtime the man's eyes finally opened; they looked clearer, more alert and they fixed immediately on John, widening in panic "I'm sorry" it was the voice from his dreams again, harsh, scared "I'm sorry – I didn't salt and burn – I wasn't – it wasn't me" he tried to hide his large frame, burrowing into the bed, his fingers hovering around the call button "I didn't think you'd come back like this – you said – you always said the dead should stay dead"

"I'm not dead" it sounded weak, lame but John felt he had to say it, to stop the man from freaking "I don't know what you're talking about"

"Don't haunt me like this" although the man's eyes were clear, he seemed delirious "I said I was fucking sorry – it wasn't me – I didn't mean to"

John bit his lip and moved to the man's side; he lifted his hand and laid it gently on the man's warm arm. He squeezed his fingers around the muscle, his touch somehow tender, something inside of him clenched and he didn't want to see this man hurting "I'm not dead" he stated clearly "Can you feel my hand? I'm very much alive"

He hadn't known what to expect, but it wasn't this. The man's eyes widened and his mouth moved soundlessly. Tears welled up and split over long lashes and then he was crying, harsh, hurting sobs that racked his body and made his whole frame shake.

John stood stock still, his hand still on the man's arm, not knowing what to do or say to prevent this meltdown. The man sobbed and sobbed, his fingers suddenly reaching out and clutching at John's hand, clasping it as if he could make it real.

Finally the weeping subsided and the man seemed to pull himself together. He sat up a little, wincing, uncomfortable "I'm sorry" he mumbled "I know you hate these chick flick moments"

"Who are you?" John swallowed, trying desperately to search his mind for a name, a memory, anything "How do you know me?"

"Dean?" the man's eyes widened a little, his hand coming up to pluck at the covers again, nervous and twitchy "You…don't know me?"

"I can't remember anything" it hurt to say it and it hurt even more to see the total devastation in the man's fathomless eyes "Nothing – my mind – it's like a black hole – has been these past eight months"

"You're Dean" the man seemed to be convincing himself as much as John "You're Dean Winchester and I'm your brother – Sam"

"Sam?" John's stomach turned and his heart flipped – he had a name – a name and a brother "I don't – it doesn't – there's nothing"

"Oh God" the young man, Sam, groaned "This is my fault – all my fault"

The monitors at the side of his bed began to beep and blip and tears were forming again. John – no Dean – he must think of himself as Dean now – found himself backing up "Look this is all a bit much for both of us – why don't I get the nurses to come and look in on you – then you can relax for a bit whilst I get my head round this – ok?"

"Dean…" Sam's eyes were wide "Yeah – yeah ok" his face was pale, sweaty and his eyes were watering "Yeah – I guess I need more drugs – the others have worked their way out of my system" he coughed, lifting a hand to his mouth "You don't remember? You don't remember anything?"

"Nothing – I'm sorry dude" he shook his head "I'm so sorry"

"No" Sam looked sicker than ever "Its me who should be sorry" he lay back on the bed "You'll come back?" it was a mournful question and John – no Dean – Dean – forced a smile "Yeah – sure – Sam – I'll be coming back"

He sat in the hospital diner watching the people walking by. His coffee was cold and his donut untouched. He had a name – Dean Winchester – like the rifle. He kept saying it, over and over, but it didn't mean anything. Why? What had happened to him?

And then there was Sam – his brother – why couldn't he remember anything about Sam? Only that voice – the voice that had haunted his dreams.

And Sam could possibly be a drug addict; an alcoholic. He could still recall the doctor's words _'Enough alcohol and cannabis in his system to floor a horse'_. Is that why Sam hadn't come for him? Had he been too drunk, too drugged to know where he was, to even care.

Then there was the self blame – Sam seemed to think himself responsible for all that had happened to Dean – hell – he even thought that Dean was dead. What part had Sam played in Dean's accident? Why the hell couldn't he remember anything? He buried his head in his hands – this was so fucked up – he wished he'd never gone to that liquor store – never helped Sam – shit – he was happier living in ignorance.

Sam was calmer. He was propped up in bed, looking a little spaced out, and Dean thought that he might be slightly high – but at least it was on legal drugs this time. "Hey man" he perched on Sam's bed, his hand on the man's wrist "Looking better"

"Dean?" Sam's voice was hesitant "Would you – I mean – would you do me a favour?"

"Sure"

"Would you just – I – would you call me Sammy – just for a moment – please"

"Of course – if that's what you want – Sammy" as soon as he said it, his stomach clenched; images flickering through his mind; a wriggling soft haired baby, a toddler hands clasped in his, a sulky teenager mooching across his vision, a shaggy head leaning against the window of a car, dimpled smiles.

"Are you – did you remember something?" Sam's voice was hopeful, eyes bright

"I – yeah – I think I did" Dean's heart was pounding

"You used to call me Sammy – when we were little" Sam was smiling slightly, dimples just showing "And then when we were older – just to annoy me"

"I did?" Dean returned the smile, hesitantly "I guess you better tell me more Sammy – because I need to fill this hole where my memory used to be"

Sam stared at him and Dean could see his mind working. He ran a hand through his untidy brown hair, too long bangs falling into his eyes "Where the hell do I start?" it was more of a rhetorical question but Dean answered it anyway.

"How's about we start with how I got here? How did I end up in hospital with no memory? And why didn't you come for me?"

"I…don't ask me that" Sam's eyes were tearing again and Dean felt his heart sink "Please – anything but that"

"I need to know Sam – why didn't you come for me? Too busy drinking? Getting high?"

"Dean" Sam swallowed, adam's apple bobbing "Dean – you have to understand – it wasn't me – I…I would never hurt you – it wasn't me"

"You're not making much sense here" Dean was feeling sick, his stomach roiling

"You want to know what happened" Sam's voice was faint but calm and he sounded resigned "It was me – I picked you up and threw you into the middle of the road – I watched the car hit you – saw your head connect with the windscreen – I saw you lying in a pool of your own blood – and I walked away – I walked away and left you for dead"

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Where Are You **

**Chapter 3**

He knelt over the toilet bowl and emptied the contents of his lunch into the unforgiving porcelain. He stayed there until the heaving had worn off and there was nothing left but bile. His mind was whirling and he wondered what he was going to do next. There was still a huge hole where his memory should be, but now he had knowledge of how he got this way – and that knowledge had nearly blown what was left of his fragile mind.

He sat in his apartment; work had given him a week off, telling him not to come back until he was better. He pondered on that, wondering if he would ever be better again. He had found his brother and, as well as being an alcoholic and maybe a drug addict, his brother – Sammy – had tried to murder him – tried to murder him and left him for dead. Dean groaned. He could still see Sam's face, pale, desperate and hear his voice, pleading – for forgiveness, for understanding. Dean shuddered; he just couldn't go back, couldn't face the sad-eyed, thin faced young man who meant absolutely nothing to him. Hell he wanted to feel something, he wanted to recognise his brother, to remember what they had together, but there was nothing, nothing but numbness and, now, a cold, creeping fear.

At least he had a name now. Armed with this knowledge he haunted the local library, spending hours on the computer's there, looking for information about him and his past.

He found notices of his birth. He had been born in Lawrence, Kansas in 1979 to John and Mary Winchester. Sam's birth – on May 2nd – four years later was also posted but after that, nothing.

He spent a long time trawling through local newspapers and found one article about how Mary Winchester had died tragically in a house fire which started in her baby's nursery. The article mentioned that her husband and sons had survived the accident but that was all.

Dean ground his fists into his eyes. It was as if, after his mother's death, a death he couldn't even remember, the Winchesters had dropped off the radar. There was nothing, absolutely nothing and Dean wanted to weep at the emptiness of it all. He had only one option, one he didn't want to take, but he had no choice – he had to go back to Sam.

"We are releasing him" if the doctor was surprised to see Dean he was too professional to show it "But we are recommending that he goes into rehab – his system is shot to hell – he tells me he drank almost constantly for six months and he has also started to drabble in other drugs" the doctor rubbed his face "He is young and strong and that will go in his favour – but he needs to get the poison out of his system and that is going to be hard for him – without professional help"

"Thanks" Dean shook the doctor's hand and made his way to Sam's room. He hadn't seen or spoken to his brother since Sam's confession and he couldn't help the way his stomach clenched or the way that nausea seeped into his throat.

Sam was sitting on the bed. He wore a checked shirt that seemed two sizes to big for him and faded, dirty jeans. His hair was greasy and unwashed and hung around his pale face. He turned his head when Dean entered and Dean saw his eyes light up, briefly, before he dropped his gaze again, his long fingers picking at an invisible thread on the denim of his jeans "You came back"

"Yeah – I came back – I need to know – I need to know about my past and you are the only one who can tell me"

"I can understand how you feel" Sam's voice was shaking and he pushed back his hair "I shouldn't have told you that" he swallowed "I guess any normal person would have freaked out"

"Look Sammy" Dean saw how his brother winced at his harsh use of his pet name "I need to know – so tell me – stop shitting with me and tell me the fucking truth"

And then it was if the flood gates had opened; Sam began to talk and it all came out, streams of consciousness that made Dean's head spin. Sam talked alright, he talked about the death of his mother, of demons, his dad's obsession, ghosts, possession, hunting evil. Sam talked about vampires and werewolves, of his girlfriend burning on the ceiling, of bleeding eyes, FBI agents, angels, spirits, demon virus's, a promise, a sacrifice and a trade. Once Sam had started it was as if he couldn't stop and Dean could only stand and listen, his heart pounding, his stomach turning, his whole world encompassed into one thing; Sam.

Dean sat heavily on the bed; he was forced to face facts; his brother was a possible alcoholic, a possible drug addict, a possible murderer and now, it seemed that he was clinically insane. He stared at Sam who stared back, their eyes locking and holding for a moment, before Sam looked away but not before Dean saw the tear that rolled down his pale cheek "I know what it sounds like" Sam hissed "I know you don't believe me, I know you don't trust me – but I can take you to someone who will help you – I can take you to friends who will help us both"

"Are they as mad as you?" Dean shook his head

"I'm not mad Dean" Sam's voice was hoarse "I'm not mad – I swear – please Dean – please – come with me – trust me – please"

Dean shrugged; his head was hurting and he wanted, desperately, to go back to his mundane and routine life; to go back to fixing cars, having sex with waitresses and eating his TV dinners. But he couldn't, he was embroiled in this – whatever it was – and he couldn't go back to how things were – he could only go in one direction – forward.

Sam led him to the lock-up garage; it was dark and cold and Dean wondered what else his 'brother' had in store for him. Dean watched as Sam fumbled with the bolt, his hands were shaking and Dean recognised the symptoms of withdrawal "Sam – hey – are you ok?"

"Yeah" it sounded like a lie and Dean put a hand on Sam's arm, trying to still the shaking

"Look Sam – we can still get you some help – I mean – I'm worried about you – what if you need drugs – a drink"

"I don't need it" Sam looked up at him, eyes bright "I don't need it Dean – not now – not now you're here – not now I have you" he pulled the bolt free and lifted up the garage door. It creaked and a light flickered on and Dean felt his breath catch in his throat.

The car was a 67 Chevy, just like the ones in his magazines and in his dreams. It was black, shiny and magnificent and Dean reached out – his fingers caressing the metal, cold and solid to his touch.

Again he was assailed by flashing images; load music, the road flashing by, a body next to him in the passenger seat, words running through his head 'Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole" "It's Sam – Sammy is a chubby twelve year old". He saw Sam, eyes closed, head resting against the window, he saw fire and heard screeching metal, he saw blood and fire and a truck heading towards them. He put a hand to his head and turned to Sam, heart pounding "This is my car"

White teeth flashed and Dean saw Sam smile, really smile, for the first time since they had met. Dimples deepened and Sam's eyes were bright and clear, the shaking in his hands and body suddenly stilled "You're remembering" long fingers closed around Dean's wrist "You're remembering"

And then he was in the driver's seat and Sam was beside him, riding shotgun. A tape played Led Zeppelin and his window was wound down, letting in the cold, damp night air. Dean watched the road ahead of him and wondered – where the hell was this leading?

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Where Are You **

**Chapter 4**

They arrived at the junkyard in the early hours of the morning and Dean wondered what the hell they were doing in a place like this. The whole yard was full of broken cars, rubber tyres and twisted pieces of metal that were totally unrecognisable. There were two large rottweillers tied up in the yard and both started barking loudly and insistently as the Impala pulled up into the driveway. Dean cut the engine and stared over at Sam in the passenger seat, his heart contracting as he saw the state of the man next to him.

Sam was asleep, his face so thin and pale, he looked insubstantial, ethereal, not dangerous or insane, just plain sick. His hair was greasy, his skin covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Dean let a hand creep out and touch Sam's face gently, running his fingers over high cheekbones "Hey" he whispered "We're here"

He had followed Sam's directions to the letter and, strangely, towards the end of their long journey the route had become more and more familiar to him. Had he travelled this road before? How often? And what was the significance of this place? His head hurt and there was still a black hole where his memory had once been, but at least he wasn't alone anymore, for good or bad, he had Sam and there was something inside of him, some strange, unknown emotion that wanted to keep Sam by him, that wanted to keep him protected and safe.

Sam's eyes flickered open and he stared at Dean, his eye lids half-mast, his mouth moving soundlessly. "Yeah" he sat up, gingerly, his limbs stiff and cramped "Good driving Dean" he rubbed a hand across his hands "There's some things you never forget"

Sam knocked the door of the house once, hard, firm. Dean heard the sound of chains and bolts being unfastened and the door was opened, slowly, carefully. A face peered out and Dean caught a flash of metal which he assumed was a gun. A hoarse but not unfriendly voice said "Sam? Dean? Good to see you – come on in"

The man was small but stocky, a baseball cap covering greasy greying hair, a beard covering most of his lower lip and chin. He wore denim from head to toe and his boots looked old and in need of replacing. He lowered his gun and stared at both of them, brown eyes flickering from Dean to Sam and back again. He shook his head "You look like shit" he said "Do you want a beer?"

Dean followed him into the house, his eyes taking in the dark interior. It was sparsely furnished, with bookshelves on every wall, covered in books. Strange pictures hung from the wall and, when he looked upwards, eyes squinting, he saw the weird but evocative illustration that someone had carved into the ceiling, a five sided star with pictures of, what looked like, devils and angels, odd symbols and images that Dean could only gape at "I'll take that beer now" he croaked "But Sammy here will settle for coffee – ok Sam?"

"Yeah – ok" Sam slumped down into one of the chairs, his long legs stretching out. His hands were shaking again and he was staring at Dean like he was willing him to remember – willing him to recognise something, anything "Dean – this is Bobby – Bobby Singer – one of our dad's oldest friends"

"Good to see ya Dean" Bobby passed the beer to Dean and watched, strangely tense, as he swallowed it down. There was a moment's pause and Bobby smiled, teeth flashing through the beard "Real good". He handed the coffee to Sam – who sipped it gratefully – eyes closing for a moment "You too Sam" a hand paused briefly and squeezed Sam's shoulder "I'm glad you've come back to us – I was worried – thought we'd lost you for good this time"

"Yeah – well – you nearly did" Sam was staring at the beer in Dean's hand and he rubbed his fingers across his face "Is she here yet?"

"Nah – tomorrow – late" Bobby pushed the baseball cap back from his eyes "I've got a room ready for you – you look like you need to sleep"

"Thanks" Dean finished his beer "But – Bobby – I…I've come here for answers – those things – those things Sam told me – I mean – it's insane – all of it"

"Yeah sounds that way don't it?" Bobby crouched down by Sam's side "But your brother is telling the truth Dean – every little bit of it" he sighed "Makes no sense I know – but when Missouri gets here – things might become clearer"

"Missouri?" Dean frowned – the name seemed oddly familiar to him

"A psychic Dean" Sam's voice was shaky "She might be able to help you – you know – to regain some of your memories" he bit his lip to stop the quavering from being obvious "That's what you want – isn't it?"

"Of course" Dean stared up again at the ceiling. He looked at the bizarre object in front of him and there was a flash again – images rolling across his eyes like a slow moving film.

A blonde woman, writhing, blood, flashes of a strange language, Sam, black eyes, the scent of burning flesh, pain in his shoulder, Sam staring at him lost and afraid, a promise, a gun. He drew in a sharp breath "You – we were here before and you – you were – you had black eyes" he could feel his body trembling and he reached for another beer, swallowing it down "Sammy" the name came out easily and he crossed the room, kneeling down by his brother "Sammy – what the fuck is going on with me?"

"You – you are remembering Dean" Sam's eyes were hopeful, watery again "It – the memories – they are going to be painful – it's not easy Dean – no one said it was going to be easy"

"Shit" Dean laid his head on Sam's knee and felt long fingers curl across his scalp. His brother clung on to him, his touch gentle but fierce "Help me Sam – I need you to help me"

"You know I will Dean" Sam's voice was firm – strong and his hands kept stroking – holding Dean's head as if it were a lifeline in a rough sea "We go together Dean – we always have – we always will – we go together"

And Dean had to cling to that and hope it was enough.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Where are you? **

**Chapter Five**

_I own nothing – Kripe owns them._

Dean sat on the edge of his bed and listened to the shower running. Bobby had given them a little room in the back of his house; again it seemed familiar to him, as if he had stayed here before, in another time and another situation. There were two beds and a large wardrobe, a TV that didn't work and more shelves of books. Dean sighed and toed off his boots; it was 4am in the morning and he still felt too wired, too full of adrenalin to sleep.

Sam emerged from the shower, a towel around his waist. His hair hung wet across his shoulders and Dean could see the faint scars on his chest and stomach. Sam looked up and gave Dean a half smile, drying himself quickly; he put on a pair of sweat pants and lay on his own bed. They were silent for a moment and Dean gazed out of the window at the fading moon. "How do you feel?"

"Better" Sam was lying stretched out on the bed, his long legs hanging off the end. Dean could see him fidget uncomfortably and try to find a comfortable position. Sam was huge, long legs and arms, big hands and feet. Even though it was obvious he had lost weight, he was still well muscled "How come - if you're the little brother – you're so fricking huge?"

Sam snorted and it was the nearest thing to a laugh that Dean had heard from him since they had 'met'. "Just good luck I guess" his voice was soft "And always eating my greens"

"Eating your greens!" Dean felt a smile forming on his own face. He rolled over so that he could look at Sam. This was his flesh and blood; his baby brother; someone he had known and cared for all his life. He desperately wanted to feel something, anything, for this man and his stomach flipped as he continued to stare, wanting nothing more than to make Sam smile or even laugh again "I guess we were close – once" it was a statement, not a question and he heard Sam's sharp intake of breath as his mind worked furiously

"We…We weren't always close" Sam's voice was gentle "I – when I was younger – 18 – I got a full ride to Stanford. Dad said if I went I should stay gone – we – you and I – we didn't talk for four years"

"Four years" Dean swallowed "What happened?"

"Dad went missing and you needed my help" Sam sighed and rolled over on to his own side – so that he could look back at Dean "I agreed to come with you for a weekend - and then went back to school"

"Is that when your girlfriend died?" Dean could see that it hurt Sam to talk about this, but he had to know

"Yeah – you rescued me – took care of me – but then you always did – always have" Sam swallowed "I miss that Dean – I wish you could remember"

"Why did you try to kill me Sam?" Dean was forced to ask the question and it hung between them in bitter silence. He closed his eyes so that he didn't have to look at Sam's face and he heard his brother's breathing quicken, heard the slight hitch and quaver in Sam's voice

"Before dad died – he – he told you something about me – I – he – he knew the demon had plans for me – he was afraid that I might turn evil – become something that I'm not" Sam paused for a moment "You – you tried to protect me – we – we tried everything – but it just didn't work"

"What happened Sam?" Two days ago Dean would have dismissed Sam's statements as drug induced rambling, but something was different, Dean couldn't remember any of this – but his mind was no longer questioning the truth – whatever Sam had done to Dean – he hadn't been in his right mind, Dean knew that now. He could tell, he just knew, that his brother, his baby, his Sammy was innately kind and gentle, there was something other worldly about him, he could see it, see that Sammy wasn't weak, in fact it was the opposite, Sammy was strong, Sammy knew his own mind "It's alright Sammy" Dean made his voice gentle and encouraging "Just tell me"

"I had to kill a girl – Madison – you won't remember that yet – but it affected me – more than I was aware. God, it was like a switch had been turned on in my brain – I didn't care anymore – I took the car – I got as far from you as possible" Sam's voice quivered and Dean opened his eyes to look into his brother's face. Sam was crying, Dean could see the tears streaming down his cheeks "It was like I was still me – but I had no conscious – I went out and got drunk – I took drugs – I – I picked up random women – I wanted to hurt – to kill" he rubbed a hand across his face "When you found me – you couldn't – you wouldn't keep your promise to me"

"Promise?" Dean wondered if he dare ask

"You promised me if I ever turned dark side you'd kill me" Sam gave him a faint and watery smile

"Yeah – well – I don't remember – but I can understand why I wouldn't kill you Sammy" Dean reached out a hand, stretching across the gap between the beds and holding on. He felt Sam trembling and he gripped harder "Come on Sammy – I understand"

"I laughed in your face" Sam clutched the hand in his "I picked you up – god knows where I got the strength from – and I threw you into the road – the car hit you and I laughed – but it wasn't me – you know that – right?"

"Yeah – I know"

"I was convinced you were dead. I ran away and it was – it was as if that switch inside me was turned off – I came back to myself – but it was too late"

"Sammy – I'm not dead – I'm here – its ok"

"You don't remember me" Sam sniffed and rubbed his free hand across his nose "And I've taken away your life"

"I may not remember you Sammy – but I know that you're my brother" Dean swallowed "Come on man – don't do this – you didn't know – it's not your fault"

"I couldn't go on – I just carried on drinking, smoking whatever I could lay my hands on – I slept on the streets – I begged for money – got stuff off people I barely knew. I guess I didn't have the courage to put a gun to my head –so I thought I'd kill myself slowly – you know – I didn't know where I was or what I was doing – I'm sorry I didn't come for you Dean – I'm sorry I couldn't be there for you" his voice trailed off and there was a long silence. Dean let his hand squeeze Sam's for a moment and then let go

"It's alright Sam" he kept his voice soft and gentle "It's alright – look – we need to sleep – you need to sleep" he smiled "Close your eyes bro – things always look better in the morning"

"You always used to say that to me Dean" Sam's voice was faint but Dean could hear that he was smiling "When we were younger – when you cared for me – and – you know what?"

"What?" Dean smothered a yawn – his mind falling away

"You were right"

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Where Are You **

**Chapter 6**

Dean woke to the smell of cooking; his sleep had been dreamless and relaxing and he felt a lot better. He rolled over – Sam's bed was empty and he felt a strange panic as he propped himself up on his elbow. It was strange, he mused, how quickly he had adapted to having Sam around; having Sam near him.

Sam was standing at the stove, frying bacon and eggs; the food smelt wonderful and Dean hadn't realised how hungry he was until the scent hit his nostrils. He smiled, sitting down at the table "Do you know" he mused as Sam turned and grinned at him, a real honest grin that showed his dimples, "I don't even know what I like to eat"

"Just go for anything fried without vegetables" Sam plopped the bacon onto Dean's plate "And plenty of sauce – you like donuts too – but only the sugared kind" he sat down facing his brother "I guess it must be hard – not remembering anything"

Dean ate his food for a moment; pondering. Sam was right, it was hard. He didn't know anything about himself, not really. He didn't know what he liked to eat, what he liked to wear, what sort of movies he enjoyed, whether he had ever been in a relationship, what his favourite colour was.

He swallowed, the bacon lying heavy in his mouth and stomach. He had been amazed how easily he had accepted the life that his therapist had created for him. How he had embraced the normal, almost boring routine of work, dinner, sleep and willing women. Yet his real life was far from normal; his mother had died in a fire created by a demon, his father had made a bargain with the self-same demon to safe Dean's life and had sacrificed his own. His brother had been possessed and turned evil and tried to kill him; his life had been surrounded by darkness and despair. Maybe his mind was trying to block out these memories, maybe his subconscious wanted to be that boring, normal mechanic who liked nothing more than micro waved dinners and Sunday nights at the local diner.

He glanced up and saw Sam staring at him; his brother looked a little better today; the trembling in his hands seemed to have abated, his hair was clean and brushed his cheeks pinker than Dean had seen them. Dean smiled at his brother; whatever had happened to him had also happened to Sam. Maybe Sam didn't choose this life either, but Sam didn't have the luxury of blotting it out, of forgetting. Sam, who had tried to kill his brother; Sam, who had tried to kill himself. Dean reached out a hand and touched Sam's fingers, rewarded with a small smile, he squeezed a little.

"I like this about the new you" Sam's voice was light, but Dean could see the honesty in his eyes "This touching – this sharing" he returned Dean's grip "You – you never really liked these 'chick flick' moments before"

"I didn't" Dean's stomach clenched a little; he liked touching his brother, feeling Sam close to him. Somehow it grounded him, made him feel better, more whole "I. am I a bit of an ass?"

"Yeah – sometimes" Sam smiled again "God – I hope Missouri can help you – I hope you can get back some of your memories"

"I remember some things" Dean sighed "I remember the Impala, you riding shotgun, I remembered you as a baby, all wriggly and soft in my arms"

"You remember me then – a little?" Sam looked hopeful

"Yeah" Dean was glad he had put the smile on Sam's face "I remember you – Sammy"

They were sitting on the hood of one of the many wrecked cars when a taxi drew up and a tired looking black woman got out of the back, stretching and yawning. Sam got up immediately and was enveloped into the woman's strong arms, his head pressed up against her substantial bosom "Sam – oh my goodness – look at you" she pushed him away "You are way too thin honey – haven't they been feeding you?"

"I'm ok" Sam flushed a little under her scrutiny "I'm ok"

"And Dean" her brown eyes moved over Dean and he felt more than a little uncomfortable. She appeared to be reading him like a book and he saw her eyes cloud and her mouth turn down, shoulders slumping "Oh my poor boy" her voice was soft, sympathy warring with anger "You don't remember any of it – do you?"

"A little" Dean felt himself backing away and Sam put a hand on his back, huge, warm and steadying "I have started to remember a little"

"You need a lot of help boy" Missouri shook her head "You have been lost to us – and we need to find you – all of you – you – you are incomplete"

"I had…I had an accident" Dean's eyes flickered to Sam "I…I was ill for a long time"

"I know what happened" her eyes were dark and fathomless "I wanted to come for you – but the darkness – it was all encompassing" she touched Sam's arm "And you needed to find each other again – you two are separate parts of the same whole – you are destined to be together – without you – there is no hope for humanity"

"That's an awful lot of responsibility for a man with no memory" Dean kept his voice light and was rewarded with a slap around the back of his skull

"You ain't lost none of your sass boy" Missouri smiled then, showing perfect white teeth "There's hope for you yet" she stretched again "Now – where's that Bobby – I need me some coffee and I need it now"

They sat around Bobby's table, sipping coffee and making small talk. Missouri watched Dean and Dean watched Missouri, still feeling uneasy. Sam was chatting to Bobby about dogs and Dean let his gaze flicker over his brother, watching him, making sure he was ok.

"You haven't forgotten that have you?" Missouri's voice was gentle "Looking after Sammy"

"He – he's all I have – right?"

"And you are all that he has" Missouri nodded her approval "And it is important to both of you that you remember that"

"I – I don't blame him – for what happened" Dean wanted her to understand "It wasn't his fault – I know that now"

"Let me help you" she reached forward and put her hands against his skull. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply, trying to relax, to see.

Pain; he felt it clear and sharp. A car hit him solid in the back and he flew skywards, falling back down into the road, blood seeping coldly from a wound in his scalp. He heard laughter and screaming and he felt his heart begin to pound, fast and hard.

A man, bearded, sad eyes, hugging tight. "I'm proud of you Dean" a voice, soft and gentle, warm. Hair beginning to go grey, hard callused hands – his father.

A woman, soft, smelling sweet, belly rounded with pregnancy. Scooping him up in her arms and whirling him round; a dog eared teddy bear, clasped in a chubby hand; the same bear burning in the flames around him as the woman screamed.

Sam; blood on his hands and shirt; a blonde woman, gagged and trying desperately to escape; black eyes; an evil grin.

Sam; face like stone, a gun aimed at Dean's head; Sam smiling "This is me" as he shot pellets of rock salt into Dean's unprotected chest.

"No!" Dean pulled away "No – I can't do this – let me go – I can't do this anymore" he was quick and breathless with panic, aware of Sam's hands reaching out to him, his voice coming harsh and filled with fear

"Dean!! Dean – stop – don't – Dean"

And then he was running, running away from the woman's intrusive hands, away from the junkyard, away from his brother, his past. He ran and ran, till he didn't know where he was or even who he was. He ran to escape his past, he ran to escape his future but most of all, he ran to escape his destiny.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**Where Are You **

**Chapter 7**

_**Happy Birthday Sam!!!**_

The diner that Dean finds himself in is familiar. It looks like all the other diners he's eaten in in the past and he sits down in a quiet booth, wishing fervently for his 'other life'; boring but happy.

He doesn't touch his food; just prods at it half heartedly. The diner is full and, all around him, there is the throb of happy chatter and laughter. Dean pulls at the label of his beer bottle and tugs at the paper, smushing it up into nothing more than mush. His head hurts and there are memories creeping back into his mind, coloured images where blackness once reigned.

Why, he was forced to wonder, were all his memories bad or painful ones? Didn't he have ANY good memories, wasn't there any laughter in his life? He thought about Sam, about his brother holding a gun to his head, his brother pushing his fingers into a bullet wound, his brother lifting him up and throwing him under a car, laughing as he did so. Maybe Sam was insane, maybe all three of those people in that fucking scruffy junkyard were freakin' mad. Dean shuddered. His apartment was still there, rent paid up till the end of the month; his job was still open, his boss still claiming he was 'the best god-damned mechanic he had ever worked with'. It wouldn't take much effort to get out of here, hitch a lift back to the city and start his old life over again, live it out, peaceful, normal.

There were two young men in the booth on his right; they were eating and sipping beer out of the bottle, bickering fondly with each other. The younger of the two flicked the finger at the elder and they burst out laughing, one holding his stomach, the other hiding his mirth behind his hand. Dean stared at them for a moment and then his stomach gave that old familiar clench and he blinked, once or twice, as his memories assaulted him.

He was in a bar, with Sam and they were eating; Dean could feel the beer bottle in his hand, feel the cold glass against his palm. He stared across at Sam, who was laughing, dimples deep, white teeth glinting. Dean was aware of the bottle being glued against his skin and he shook at it, glaring at Sam – who only laughed more "You didn't"

"I did!"

He clenched his teeth as more images flooded in; Sam in the Impala, a plastic spoon in his mouth, Sam wrestling with him on the bed trying to grab at something, Sam bitching about his music, Sam turning to look at him, trust and love shining from big, hazel eyes.

Dean shuddered; whatever he did it seemed that all his memories, good or bad, were tied up in Sam. He couldn't go back to his old life because in reality, that life, that Dean, had never really existed. He had never, ever been John Smith, he had always been Dean Winchester and his future, his life, his destiny was tied up with that of Sam. He swallowed hard, rubbing his hand across the beer bottle in front of him, panic welling up in his chest – oh God – Sam – he had left Sam after promising he wouldn't. He had promised Sam to protect him, to watch his back. Dean heard his own voice, clear and concise, determined "Nothing bad is gonna happen to you whilst I'm around"

He hitched a lift back to the junkyard, his heart pounding. It was late when he got back and the whole place was in darkness. There was no sign of anyone and Dean felt his stomach drop as he entered the house, his eyes searching desperately around the empty kitchen.

"You came back" it was Bobby's voice, matter of fact, resigned and Dean let out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding.

"Yeah – I – I'm sorry" he didn't know why he was apologising but he felt the need to do so. He watched as Bobby entered the kitchen and sat at the table, baseball cap pushed back from his forehead "Where's Sam?"

"He broke into my liquor cabinet" Bobby scratched at his beard "I couldn't stop him – he was pretty cut up – he – he was convinced you were gone for good and that it was his fault"

"Oh God" Dean's knees felt weak and his head was thudding painfully "Missouri?"

"Sent her to bed – she feels bad – too much too soon she said" Bobby shrugged but his eyes were kind "I understand boy" he stated "But for now you gotta go out there and get your brother – he is hell bent on killing somebody – and that somebody appears to be himself"

Dean took the flashlight that Bobby offered and made his way into the junkyard. He felt sick to his stomach, his mind whirling back to the first day he had seen Sam. He kept dwelling on the doctor's words to him, about Sam needing to get the poison out of his system, about Sam needing help. Well – Dean had helped him alright – he had helped him right back into trouble again.

There was a big black truck in the corner of the yard and Dean knew it instantly. This time there were no sudden flashes, no painful images, just cold, hard clarity. This was his father's truck. He could see his father driving it, smell the scent of motor oil and linseed that always seemed to permeate the inside, hear his father singing old Elvis songs, see in the distant corner of his returning memory, his pregnant mother sitting beside him, laughing, always laughing.

Sam was sprawled out against one of the wheels. There were several bottles scattered, empty, around his feet and his legs were wide apart, his head low on his chest, his arms slung out beside him. Dean stared down at him and swallowed hard. Something pushed insistently at his memory and he heard Sam's voice, slurred, harsh "You're bossy – and short"

He glanced down at his brother, but Sam was still and his eyes were closed. He knelt down and put his hand on Sam's shoulder "Sammy?"

"Dean" Sam seemed to struggle with his tongue, the word Dean so slurred it was barely a word at all "Y'came back" his eyelids rose to half mast and blurred eyes stared at him "F'how long this time?" he moved his head, slowly "Where's all the booze" his hand lifted to his face "Drunk all of it – shit – I could go for some weed now"

"Come on Sammy" Dean put his hands under his brother's shoulders and heaved. Sam wobbled to his feet, falling forward on to Dean's chest and Dean felt the warm wetness of drool soaking his shirt "We are gonna get you into bed bro – ok?" Dean felt a lump forming in his throat and it made his voice almost as slurred as Sam's "Sleep tonight and it'll all look better in the morning – ok?"

"You – you really are bossy aren't you" Sam's voice was muffled in Dean's shirt and his feet barely moved as Dean urged him forward "You – gonna stay with me – right"

"Yeah Sam – I'm gonna stay"

He managed to get his brother into bed; trash can by the side ready for the vomiting which would surely come. Sam lay on his back, cheeks flushed red with alcohol, eyes wavering "Dun't go – stay"

"I'm here Sam"

"Sammy" a huge paw came out and unsteadily grasped his hand "M'your Sammy – remember me now?"

"Yeah – Sam – I remember you" Dean held on to the hand and felt it pull him, so that he was lying half against his brother, alcohol fumes blasting into his face "Come on dude – sleep now"

"Stay here" Sam sounded angry – determined and his arm went around Dean, affectively trapping him on the bed "Stay" his eyes closed and soft snores began almost instantly.

Dean lay still, pulling his legs up on to the bed and wrapping his arms about his brother's waist. It was uncomfortable and Sam smelt like shit, but it was the closest thing to home that Dean had felt since waking up in the hospital and he embraced it as he embraced his brother – his Sammy.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

**Where Are You **

**Chapter 8**

Dean awakes to the expected sound of vomiting. He manages to get his brother out of the bed and, with the trash can firmly in hand, helps him over to the toilet and holds his hair back as he pukes.

Sam sits on the end of the bed in just his boxers. He is shaking, hands and legs moving at double speed. His face is bone white and his eyes rimmed with red and bloodshot "Guess I fell off the wagon" he states, his voice harsh

"You didn't as much fall as plummet" Dean's attempt at humour seems to work and Sam gives him a wan smile "Come on" he throws his brother a shirt "Get dressed – you need to eat"

He leaves Sam to get ready and goes downstairs. Missouri is in the kitchen and she turns when he comes through the door, her teeth white as she smiles at him "I'm sorry boy" her voice is gentle "I pushed too hard – I'm just a foolish old woman at times" she squeezes oranges into a jug "Where's that brother of yours?"

"He's ok" it wasn't what she asked but she smiles again, eyes sad, knowing that his statement is a lie

"Neither of you is ok and you know it" she pushes a glass of orange juice over to him "You are starting to remember" it is a statement and not a question and Dean nods

"It's different from before" he sips at the juice gratefully, his eyes on the golden liquid rather than her face with its knowing eyes "Before I just got flashes, images, like a film or something – now I actually remember things, people, there's still huge black holes in my mind – but I see things – I remember my dad – my mom – little Sammy" he finally got the courage to look up "Will this ever get better?"

Before she can answer Sam enters and Dean takes a sharp intake of breath. His brother looks terrible, still pale, too thin, his body barely concealing the tremors that he is feeling. He glances across at Missouri with guilt ridden eyes and slumps into an easy chair, sitting on his hands to conceal how much they are shaking.

"Drink this" Missouri gives him some juice and he takes it carefully, hardly able to hold it to his lips "Sam Winchester – you need to get yourself some help boy – you can't help your brother if you can't help yourself"

"No" Sam's reply is vehement "I'm not leaving him" he sips at the juice and Dean watches as the orange liquid dribbles down his chin "I'm all he has"

There is a long silence and Dean can virtually hear Missouri's brain ticking over in her head. In the end the woman sighs "Then we will have to see it out together" she smiles "I've already told Bobby to git rid of all the alcohol in the place – dang if that man isn't stubborn – but I'm not having you drink yourself to death - not on my watch" she refills the glass and gives it back to Sam ""Plenty of this and you have to eat to – not that fatty stuff that you boys used to live on – but fresh fruit, brown bread, good home cooking" the tone of her voice bucks no argument and Dean sees Sam smile a little and feels better.

They sit on Bobby's porch, the older man already on his fifth cup of coffee. He looks sulky under the beard and Dean can't help but smile. Since they had arrived he couldn't remember seeing Bobby without a bottle of beer in his hand and he guessed the older man was feeling the cold turkey almost as much as Sam was. Sam is asleep on the porch swing, long legs stretched out, hair in his face. Dean feels a tight clench in his chest as he looks at his brother.

It was as if Missouri had opened a gate in his mind; just a touch; a little gap and now the memories were beginning to trickle through. He could see Sam as a little boy, holding out the prize from a box of Lucky Charms, face sincere and loving. He could remember how it felt to take care of his little brother, feelings of irritation, anger and frustration mixing with those of love and pride. He frowned, pressing his fingers against his temple. What sort of person was he? Sam had mentioned his sudden need to touch and embrace his brother. Hadn't he done that before? Had he been a cold man? Harsh? He wanted to know so much, learn about the things that had shaped him, brought him to this place. There wasn't much to go on now and he wondered if he were a better or worse man than before.

"You're just different" Missouri put a gentle hand on his arm "Not better or worse Dean Winchester – just different"

"Man that makes me uncomfortable" he smiled suddenly, his eyes on her face "You – you are just reading my mind"

"No boy" she flicked him lightly with her fingers "I can just see things that's all" she shook her head "You and that brother of yours need help badly – but Sam has always been the stubborn one and he ain't gonna start changing now" she squeezed his arm gently "You are both different people now Dean – you may never get back to what you were – but wherever you go – you are gonna have to go there together"

"I know" he nodded, glancing over at his brother, the sunlight dappling over his sleeping form "I guess I've always known"

The next month was hard. Dean rang his work and resigned, he let the lease on his apartment close and he waved goodbye to 'John Smith' forever.

He spent long hours with Missouri; letting her gently probe his mind, searching for his memory, searching, really for himself. Sometimes the things that came into his mind were painful and sad, other times they were gentle and happy. Often, when he remembered something scary or painful he wanted to bolt, to escape, but he only had to glance at Sam and he stayed put, his brother's needs coming before his own.

Sam clung to him like a limpet and, whilst it should have been annoying and uncomfortable, Dean embraced it, embraced the little bit of his family that still lived. Sam never let Dean out of his sight, watched him with luminous eyes, sat next to him at breakfast, lay in his lap whilst they watched TV. Sometimes Dean felt that they had regressed twenty years and that he was an eight year old, caring for his four year old brother. Sam needed him and, deep inside, he knew he needed Sam just as much.

Bobby told him a lot about his father; talked to him about hunts past and all the friends that were now dead and gone. It was through Bobby that he learnt more about the demon, about what had happened to his mom, his brother's girlfriend, the deal his dad had made. Dean was thankful he didn't remember those things, sometimes hoped he never would. He knew, though, that the demon was still out there, that it still had plans for his brother and that he had to keep Sam safe. He guessed that it must have rejoiced when it thought that he had been killed and his brother hit rock bottom. It must have celebrated, thinking that the Winchester brothers were no longer a problem, that Sam would embrace his dark side once more and become the 'good little soldier' it wanted him to be.

At night he would help Bobby put down the protection charms, line the doorways and window sills with salt. He would hang dream catchers and pentagrams in their bedroom and he would sleep next to Sam, cramped up in the tiny bed, a knife under his pillow. He may not remember how to be a hunter, but he was a quick learner.

He still didn't recognise himself; still searched, fruitlessly, in the corridors of his mind for the old Dean – the Dean that Bobby talked about, the Dean who his dad had cared so much for he had sacrificed his own life. He didn't remember the old Sam either. The Sam who was so strong, so courageous, the Sam who had made him promise; the Sam who had been so determined to halt his destiny – even if it meant death.

All he had was small, broken pieces of their lives and, although he was pretty sure it was out of character, he prayed every night, to whoever might listen to him. He prayed for safety, he prayed for his memory, he prayed for a dad he could barely recall, a mother he barely knew anyway, but most of all he prayed that Sam would get better, that Sam would become Sam again – and then maybe, just maybe they could be Dean and Sam – as they were always meant to be.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

**Where are you? **

**Chapter Nine**

Six months after Dean had been released from hospital and four months after he had been reunited with Sam, Bobby suggested a hunt. "Bout time you got back 'in the saddle'" he said, gulping down one of his endless cups of coffee "They say that doing something familiar helps stir up the memory – and for you its hunting"

Dean sat at the kitchen table, pouring over his dad's journal. He'd read it countless times before, looking at details of previous hunts, running his hands over coffee stains and blotches that looked like tear drops on the wrinkled pages. He'd stared at it until his eyes blurred, read it backwards and forwards, but he still didn't remember. All he had were vague impressions; a stern voice, grey beard and hair, the smell of gun oil and leather, a voice in his head "I'm proud of you son". His father in the cab of his truck; his father with a gun in his hand and, most disturbingly, his father with yellow eyes, laughing at him, as his chest tore and blood stained his skin.

Was he ready for hunting again? Sure Bobby had told him about how good he had been, spent hours talking about Dean's exploits. Bobby had also taken Dean out back and practised shooting with him. Dean knew he was still good, but he was unsure if he was a good as he used to be.

He glanced across at Sam. His brother was sitting on the sofa, flipping the channels of Bobby's old TV. Sam looked better than ever; he had put on weight and had spent hours in the fresh air, walking with Missouri or with Dean. Sam's skin was brown now rather than bone white and the shakes in his hands and body had stilled. As if he knew he was being watched, Sam switched off the TV and turned to Dean, a wide smile making the dimples in his cheek deepen "Hey – are you ok?"

"Yeah – just – Bobby has a hunt for us – he said that doing something familiar might help me with my memory"

"He might be right" Sam shrugged "How do you feel about that?"

"I'm not sure that I'm ready. Hell I'm not sure that we are ready"

"The shakes have stopped" Sam grinned wryly "I guess I could hold a gun again"

"There must be something else that we can do together" Dean swallowed; his eyes on Sam's face "We must have done other things – right?"

"We used to go to bars while you hustled pool" Sam quirked an eyebrow "But as I'm not allowed to drink – that's out – not that I was ever a big drinker" he paused and Dean saw a fleeting sadness flicker across his hazel eyes "Before"

"What else?" Dean got up and joined his brother on the sofa "We must have done other things together – family things"

There was a long silence and Dean could hear his brother breathing, heavy and slow. He glanced over at Sam, wondering what was wrong. Sam glanced back, his expression unreadable "We hunted – stayed in seedy motels – drank at bars – and hunted" Sam shrugged "What more can I say to you?"

"What about when we were kids? We must have done things then, Christmas? Birthdays?" Dean moved closer to his brother and put a hand on his knee "Sam?"

"We were never really in one place long enough to do anything" Sam put his hand over Dean and squeezed "Dad raised us like soldiers Dean – he – he did his best – but our childhood – it wasn't anything like normal"

"I don't remember" Dean felt lost, sudden loneliness and despair flooding his veins "I don't remember – I just thought – maybe – our life wasn't just hunting"

"When we were little – you always remembered my birthday" Sam was smiling, eyes distant "You always used to trim up the rooms where we stayed and you used to buy me cake and put a candle in the top" he shrugged "When I was ten – dad said we were too old for that sort of thing and then – well – it sorta stopped"

Dean stared at his brother, eyes wide. Sam didn't look sad or angry, just kind of distant "I don't even know when your birthday is" Dean's voice was low "Or mine for that matter"

"It doesn't matter Dean" Sam was shaking his head

"It does to me" Dean didn't mean to sound angry but he was. Sam stared hard at him and Dean saw something flash in those clear hazel eyes. He saw Sam's jaw jut out, his wide nostrils flare a little, he saw Sam's shoulders tense a little and he knew – he knew with clarity that Sam – his Sam – not the needy broken Sam of the last few months – was back "Listen Sammy – it matters to me – ok"

"My birthday is 2nd May – yours is 24th January" Sam was still staring, his jaw set

"Too late for yours and too early for mine" Dean forced a laugh "I guess we will have to do Christmas then"

"Dean…do you want this hunt?" Sam was trying to change the subject and Dean recognised his brother's attempt to lighten the mood. Dean's chest felt tight and there was a lump forming in his throat, a lump he couldn't swallow down – however hard he tried.

He was scared; no – he was terrified. It was one thing to be told you were a good hunter – but another to actually go on a hunt. He might have been convinced that he had once killed any manner of supernatural creature, but he couldn't remember doing it, he couldn't remember holding a gun or a knife, couldn't remember burning bones or digging graves. He clutched Sam's hand in his, his brother's knuckles turning white under the pressure "No – I – Shit Sam – I don't know – I don't know anything anymore. I remember some things and not others – I – there is still this huge gap – this darkness – I'm scared Sam – I don't know how to do this any more"

"Dean" Sam swallowed and looked down at their entwined fingers "I – I've watched you nearly die three fucking times now man and I don't want to have to do it again – but Dean – its still out there – the demon – it still has plans for me – its just waiting there – binding its time – we have to do this man – we have to" he shook his head "Dad wanted us to do this Dean – saving people – hunting things – it's the family business" he bit his lip hard "I never wanted this either Dean – but its our destiny – we can't escape it"

Dean wanted nothing more than to run; but instead he sat on the sofa, staring at his brother, aware, perhaps for the first time, of the magnitude of what they did – hunting – saving people – coming face to face with evil. He wondered what that other Dean – the old Dean – the hard, unemotional Dean – would do "Ok Sammy" he said, finally, resigned "Lets do this thing"

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

**Where are you? **

**Chapter Ten**

The whole house is dark and dank and smells sharply acidic, like urine. Dean shuddered, his hands shaking as he put them in his pockets, feeling the heavy weight of the gun there. Sam is beside him and in the dim light Dean can see how big he is, the solid weight of his body pressed against Dean in a protective manner. Sam is steady, calm, his body still and lithe and ready. Dean realised that this was the 'real' Sam, the Sam that the 'other' Dean must have known and loved; the Sam who was strong and always had his back. Dean wiped sweaty palms across the thighs of his jeans. God he was glad that Sam had his back now.

It was a simple haunting; or so Bobby said. A child's spirit; eye witnesses had seen it flickering in and out, from its stance at the top of the stairs. What made it dangerous was the fact that it had the habit and the strength to actually push people down those stairs and two people were now dead, their necks broken.

Sam thought that the child might have been murdered; the body hidden somewhere in the house. Sam had done some research and found out that the house was once a children's home and one that was not very savoury; Sam had seemed distressed as he typed away at the laptop; the history, it seemed, was very tragic.

Dean had been impressed by Sam's research and his obvious enthusiasm for the job in hand. His brother spent hours on the laptop, his tall frame hunched, tongue poking from his lips as he surfed net sites and read long reports. Dean had, eventually, persuaded Sam to leave his research in the early hours of the morning, offering him coffee and a donut "This is how it works ok" Sam had smiled, his long fingers hovering over the keys "I'm the physic geek boy and you're the brave and strong hunter" Dean swallowed

"I don't think it works like that anymore" his voice was hoarse but he was attempting to hide the fear in it "I'm not that man anymore Sam"

Sam reached out a hand and settled it over Deans, squeezing reassuringly "You'll get it back Dean" his voice was soft and gentle "It'll be alright – trust me"

"I hope so" Dean could see the sadness in his brother's hazel eyes but beneath that he could see something else, something he was aware of putting there; guilt.

Dean snapped his mind back to the present. Sam touched his shoulder "Are you ok?"

"Yeah – yeah – I'm fine" it was an obvious lie and he knew that Sam knew it. He put his hand in his pocket again, feeling the gun, hard and heavy under his fingertips. The black hole in his mind seemed to gape and grow, the residue memories not enough to reassure him. Flashes crossed his mind like jagged lightening; him shooting rock salt at a wavering spirit; diving into ice cold water searching for a lost child; the scent of burning flesh in his nostrils as he stood over an open grave. He could see those things but it was like a film, an episode from a TV show. He could see them but he sure as hell didn't actually remember doing them "What now?" he hissed to Sam.

"We look for the kid's body" Sam lifted his flashlight, illuminating the darkness "I guess whoever did this must have hidden the evidence – I'll take the basement and ground floor – you take the upper floor – and Dean – keep your cell on – ok?"

Dean hadn't wanted to split up; the fear that had been a curling in the pit of his stomach was now growing into a churning mess and he felt his legs begin to shake, the sweat on his brow drip down his face, even though the house was cold and he was trembling with it "Ok" he didn't want Sam to see what a wreck he had become; he wanted to be the 'old' Dean – the Dean that would look out for his little brother, the Dean that had sworn to protect. He watched as Sam moved away, the light from his flash growing ever dimmer. Dean flipped the switch on his own light and made his way slowly up the stairs.

The rooms were dingy and run-down; wallpaper peeling away from the walls, what furniture there was damp spotted and filthy. Dean shuddered as he imagined children living here and he could understand why the ghost was so full of rage and hate. As he left the third room he saw it and his heart pounded painfully in his chest. The figure was small, dressed in, what looked like, rags. Its ravaged face was tear-stained and it flickered in and out; wavering in Dean's vision like the images in his head.

Dean walked slowly towards the child; hand out in supplication. It wasn't until he got closer that he realised his mistake, a mistake that the old brave hunting Dean would never have made. The spirit saw him and, then, subtly it changed, its face transforming; evil laughter splitting its features. Arms, surprisingly corporate, reached out and grabbed Dean by the biceps and, suddenly, he was flying through the air, his head spinning, the awful sound of giggling filling his ears as he crashed from the top of the stairs to the bottom. Pain exploded in the back of his head and stars flashed in his eyes; he thought he heard Sam scream his name and then blackness enveloped him and he knew no more.

The scent of burning flesh filled his nostrils and he felt nausea assault him; vomit filling the back of his throat, burning him. He felt wetness underneath his head and he tried to move, but the fierce pain in his skull made him reel and he tried to open his eyes.

"Dean – Dean – for fuck sake man – Dean" he heard Sam's voice, a litany of curses and frantic urging "Open your eyes – Dean – Dean can you hear me?"

Sam's hands were shaking, Dean could feel the tremors beneath his head and neck as Sam touched him. He felt hot tears fall onto his face and he realised his brother was crying. He could hear the panic in Sam's voice and he responded, his eyes flickering open, the sudden brightness making him heave and cough.

"Dean…" Sam's voice was harsh "Oh god – oh god" shaking hands lifted his head and he felt fingers carding through his hair "You're bleeding – you might have concussion – I've called 911 – helps coming" his voice ended on a sob "Oh god Dean – I thought – I thought you were dead"

The next few hours seemed fuzzy and unclear; flashing lights punctuating painful darkness. Hands prodding; poking. Whispered voices; needles being inserted; gentle fingers stitching his wounds.

When he opened his eyes again, Sam was sitting beside him, hazel eyes blurry, shaking hands reaching out the instant Dean opened his eyes "Dean?" he bent forward and Dean felt foolish relief that his breath smelt sweet, expecting to smell sour alcohol or strong weed "You ok man?"

"Yeah" his voice sounded harsh to his ears "You?"

"I guess you expected me to fall right off that wagon again" Sam was attempting to keep his voice light

"Maybe" Dean returned the smile – but his lips shook and he realised it probably looked like a grimace "At least I haven't lost my memory – what's left of it"

"Not funny"

"Maybe a little funny" Sam was touching every little bit of him, his hair, his face, his hands

"Dean – fuck – what were we thinking?"

"You got him though – didn't you?"

"Found his bones hidden in one of the kitchen closets" Sam grimaced "Burnt them – after I had dealt with you"

"Then it worked Sam – he won't kill anymore"

"But he nearly killed you" Sam's voice was harsh, heavy with unshed tears "When I saw you Dean – I – I – it was like before – when you slammed against that car" Sam put his hand on Dean's shoulder, stilling him "We're not ready Dean – it was too much – too soon" he could barely keep the panic from his voice "When I saw you there – I wanted to run away and drink the fucking bar dry – I wanted to smoke weed till my brain fried – I wanted nothing more than oblivion" he pressed his hand against Dean's forehead "We need help Dean – both of us – we need help"

Dean looked into his brother's eyes and saw the truth there "Yeah" he admitted, knowing that his brother didn't mean Missouri or Bobby "Yeah I know"

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

**Where are you? **

**Chapter Eleven**

The place was called The Retreat and Dean felt that was what they were doing, retreating, leaving everything behind and hiding from a world that he, Dean, no longer understood.

They were careful not to call it a hospital, a clinic, a rehabilitation centre. It looked more like a smart hotel than anything else and there was nothing clinical about it; there was no antiseptic smell, no whitewashed walls, no hard and scratchy beds. There were private rooms, a swimming pool, games rooms and a smart wide screen TV. It was expensive but Bobby had handed them a credit card 'acquired' in their name and they could easily afford it.

Sam had wanted to come to this particular place in Nevada because it was close to the Grand Canyon. Dean didn't understand why his brother was so insistent but he went along with it, wanting only to make Sam happy, to become the brother Sam wanted and, more importantly, needed.

They weren't allowed to see each other during the day, whilst they had therapy, but at night they could share a room and do whatever they wished. They weren't prisoners here, but were encouraged to stay close, to use the facilities. If it weren't for the huge gaping hole in Dean's head and Sam's almost constant shaking, he might imagine that they were on a wonderful vacation.

Missouri had travelled back to Lawrence, insisting that they come and visit as soon as they were able. Before she left she held Dean close to her ample bosom and whispered, gently, in his ear "I've opened that door just a crack boy, but you need to let the memories through, you need to take the block off" she brushed his hair "I don't think you want to let them out Dean and that is the problem"

Dean shuddered, looking out of the window. They were in desert country and the weather was hot and dry. He wondered, briefly, if Missouri was right. Was he blocking his memories? Why would he do that? Granted most of the thoughts that had invaded his fuzzy mind were grim and dark, but that wasn't a reason to block out the rest – or was it?

He had the feeling that the 'old' Dean – the other Dean – would never have allowed this to happen. The other Dean would never check himself into rehab, never let his emotions show, never show such weakness. The other Dean would protect Sam; the other Dean wouldn't let his baby brother fall into a downward spiral of drink and drugs. He wondered what the 'old' Dean was like because, to be honest, he sounded like a bit of an ass. Maybe that was another reason for blocking out his memories; he just didn't want to be 'that' Dean again.

Sam joined him for dinner but neither of them ate much. Sam drank lots of water and Dean stuck to coffee. The night was fresh and warm and they strolled in the grounds, a comfortable silence between them. Tomorrow they would begin treatment and Dean didn't even want to think about it, about what might happen if his memory did suddenly return.

Sam was restless; tossing and turning. Dean rolled over in his bed and peered through the darkness. Sam was muttering and Dean caught snippets of words like 'Dad', 'Dean', 'Stop'. Finally Dean could take no more and got out of his own bed, sitting beside Sam, his hand automatically going to his brother's shoulder and shaking lightly.

"Dean?" Sam's eyes opened "What's happening?"

"Dreaming a little loud there Sammy"

"Was I?" Sam sat up and flipped on the bedside light "God Dean – I could really use a drink right now" he grinned wryly "I guess you wouldn't believe I used to have a two beer limit"

"Yeah" Dean smiled back, his hand still resting on his brother's shoulder "I'm sorry Sam – really sorry"

"For what?"

"For everything"

"Dean – none of this is your fault – it's – it's all mine"

"Sam – you have to stop blaming yourself – what happened – it was none of it your fault"

"What if he comes for me again?" Sam's voice was soft "I – we – we won't be able to fight him – he'll win Dean and this time – I might actually kill you"

"He isn't going to win Sammy" Dean swallowed hard, speaking with a conviction he certainly didn't feel "We're gonna get better and then we're gonna go out and kick some demon ass" he grinned "How does that sound?"

"Like Dean Winchester" Sam's eyes were hopeful, eyes glowing in the soft light of the room "It sounded like my big brother"

"It's going to be ok Sam" Dean was even more determined to find himself again "It's going to be ok"

"So Mr Winchester – Dean – where shall we start?" his therapist was a middle aged black man who had kind eyes and a determined expression "Amnesia is a tricky little monster" he smiled "So tell me what you do remember?"

"Images" Dean returned the smile. This was going to be harder than he thought. If he mentioned hunting, demons or monsters he was going to be committed "I can see myself doing things – but I don't remember actually doing them. Sometimes there are flashes – smells –sounds – but it is like I'm watching someone else – a different me"

"Are the memories pleasant?" the man's eyes were sharp

"No – no most of the time – they are painful – unpleasant" Dean's voice wavered "They rush in at me – I can't stop them"

"Do you want to stop them?" the question was so like Missouri's that Dean felt his heart falter "Do you want to remain ignorant? Maybe get rid of the old you – start afresh?"

"I – I don't know" he stared at the man "I – I remember my brother – remember him as a baby – looking after him – those memories are so clear – so sharp – I know that was me"

"Do you love your brother?"

"He's all I have – my mom – she's dead and so is my dad – I don't remember them much – but my brother – he – he's always been here"

"You want to get better don't you Dean? For Sam"

"Sam needs me"

"Then you have to let those memories back in" his therapist shut his pad and smiled "We can talk all day Dean – but in my view – what is wrong with you isn't physical anymore – it isn't about your head injury – but you already knew that – didn't you?"

"Yeah" the truth was staring him in the face and he knew with painful clarity that the therapist and Missouri had been right all along. He didn't want to be Dean Winchester - demon hunter, killer of all things evil, protector of the weak – anymore. Sure he wanted to be Dean Winchester – awesome big brother and protector of Sammy – but that was all. He stared at the therapist – his jaw slack. He wanted nothing more than to grab Sam and bolt, take the Impala and drive to the Grand Canyon.

Shit – images began to assault his senses – Sam – drinking beer – smiling – Dean offering to quit – to go see the Grand Canyon – Sam angry – the voice that had haunted his dreams bursting in his head "Does this mean I'm gonna go dark side?" Dean shuddered, his eyes closing, his head spinning. The faint memories that were beginning to seep into his mind suddenly surged forward and the door that had only been open a crack before was suddenly flung open. Dean groaned and he was barely aware of the therapist's hand on his arm – a voice soft and persuasive – blowing his mind wide open "Let them in Dean – let them in"

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

**Where are you? **

**Chapter Twelve**

His head hurt; agonising pain which made him feel nauseous. It hurt more than it had the day that they had brought him into hospital – and he remembered – he remembered everything.

He opened his eyes; he was lying on his own comfortable bed, a sheet pulled up over his legs and body. He squinted against the bright light "Son of a bitch" his voice was harsh, his throat burning as if it were on fire.

"Dean?" it was Sam's voice, soft and pleading "Dean can you hear me?"

"Sam – can you turn off the damn light – it – it hurts my eyes". There was a shuffling sound and the light suddenly dimmed. Dean sighed with relief and opened his eyes again.

Sam was sitting beside him, long fingers resting on his wrist. Dean could see the concern in his hazel eyes and he could feel his brother's body shaking; in fact Sam was shaking so hard that he could virtually see the tremors wracking his body "Dean – they – they told me you passed out in therapy – are you – I mean – Dean?" Sam seemed to be having difficulty with his words and his voice trailed off, his fingers absently stroking Dean's wrist.

Dean lay there; his mind whirling. The black hole that was once his mind had been filled; everything that had happened to him and his family was back, in painful, distressing clarity. Worse than that, he was now only too well aware of the incident that had put him in hospital in the first place, of his brother's involvement and the terrible consequences it had wrought.

"Dean?" Sam spoke again and Dean hissed, pulling his hand away from Sam's seeking fingers "Fuck Dean – what's wrong?"

"I remembered – everything – I remembered everything Sam"

"Oh God" Sam's shoulders slumped and Dean saw something die in his once bright eyes. Dean drew in a deep breath and stared hard at his baby brother, clarity suddenly dawning.

"You didn't want me to remember" his voice sounded harsh and cold, even to his own ears "Did you?"

"What are you saying Dean?" Sam was shaking harder now, his hands clasped together in an attempt to stem the tremors "I brought us here – you must remember that – I wouldn't have suggested it – if I didn't want you to get better"

"Yeah – yeah" Dean snorted a sarcastic laugh and Sam winced "You wanted me to remember hunting – and you – but the rest – maybe you hoped I'd stay ignorant of that"

"I told you the truth" Sam appeared to be reading his mind "About turning evil – about trying to kill you"

"I can see it now" Dean felt a lump form and he swallowed it down angrily "I remember it all Sam – and believe me – it isn't a pleasant memory"

"Dean – it wasn't me"

"I don't want this" anger exploded out of Dean and he realised that he was scared, scared and weak, emotions that he wasn't used to feeling, emotions that he didn't want to acknowledge. His mind felt as if it were being torn in two – his memories were back – but he sure as hell wished that they weren't "I don't want this"

"Dean – I – I'm gonna get some help ok?" Sam gripped Dean hard on the shoulder, using his superior strength to keep Dean still, to stop him from pulling away "You need some help"

"No!" Dean Winchester didn't need anyone's help. He was strong, he had to maintain his game-face "No help" he struggled up in the bed and put his hands on Sam's chest and pushed – hard "I should never have let you talk me into this – never have come here – we could have sorted it out with Missouri – we would have got through this"

"You were blocking it out" Sam's voice was gentle "You couldn't hunt, you couldn't remember how to hunt – but you wanted to"

"Can you blame me?" Dean stared hard at his brother's pale face and he felt a sudden, irrational hatred "Most of my goddamn memories seem to involve you trying to kill me in some way – Sam – just get out of my face"

"Dean…" Sam's voice was desperate "It is just because your memories have returned – it's shock – you just need to see someone"

"No – and I don't want to see you either" Dean rolled over, burying his throbbing head into the pillow "Just leave me alone". He heard Sam give a sharp intake of breath and he laid still, his head turned resolutely away. There was a moments silence and then he heard the door creak open and slow shuffling footsteps and he knew Sam had left.

He let the memories come and it hurt him. He could see Sam, tears streaming down his face, gun in his hand, having to shoot the woman he had just spent the day with. He heard his own voice saying "Let me – I've got this one" and hear Sam's choked reply "She asked me to do it". He felt one solitary tear roll down hi shot cheek as he watched his baby brother suffer. He felt himself flinch as the gunshot sounded.

He remembered how much Sam had changed since that day; how his innate innocence had turned to hardness he hardly recognised. How Sam suddenly started vanishing for days on end; how Sam would return to their motel rooms smelling of beer, smoke and perfume.

He had taken to staring at Sam, looking at his eyes, dreading seeing the pupils turn black or yellow. The odd thing was – Sam's eyes stayed hazel and cold – and he hated that – he hated the thing that his brother was becoming, hated that he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

He could recall that terrible day in dreadful technicolor; see Sam laughing at him; feel the heavy throb of the gun in his hand; see his own fingers shaking round the trigger. He felt the sensation of being thrown through the air; hearing Sam's hysterical laughter; feeling the car hit him; his head connect with the pavement; cold blood seeping.

Dean groaned; he felt his head throb and his eyes filled with hot painful tears. He realised that Sam was right; he guessed that Sam was always right. He was in shock, he couldn't connect the Dean he was then with the Dean he was now. With his memory returning he knew he was Dean Winchester; hard, emotionally repressed, killing whatever he could lay his hands on – evil or otherwise.

Then there was another part of him who was still the 'new' Dean – the Dean that wanted to hold and touch; the Dean that was scared of the life he was forced to lead; the Dean that wanted nothing more than to love and protect his younger brother. A younger brother that he had just let walk away – Sam – oh god Sam.

He sat up abruptly; ignoring the pain throbbing against his temple. Swinging his legs out of bed, he flung open the door and went into the hall, searching for his brother; looking for Sam. He went everywhere; the pool; the game's room; the therapy suite; but there was no sign of him, nothing. Finally he asked the receptionist, trying to keep calm, charming her, smiling brightly. She checked down the list with her fingers, long red tips tapping. A frown dented her forehead and she stared at Dean "He's checked out" her voice was kind and Dean saw the pity in her eyes

"Did he say where he was going?"

"I'm sorry – he didn't say anything – he just checked out" her hand went instantly to his arm and he realised he was swaying, his head spinning, the pain driving him almost out of control. Sam – the one mainstay – the one thing that belonged to 'both' Deans – the one person that loved Dean whatever his memory – Sam – and it was Dean that had driven him away.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

**Where are you? **

**Chapter Thirteen**

The Impala moved, smooth and slow, through the dark night, lights blazing. In the illuminated shadows Dean could make out the occasional sharp movement, bodies slinking back into the inky blackness, the whisper of voices, the cold air of suspicion.

In a million years Dean never thought he would be searching these areas; over run by drug addicts, vagrants and the homeless; looking constantly for his little brother. Sam; Sam who had a two beer limit; Sam who, before his amnesia, he had only once seen drunk and, even then, he had been driven to it by desperation.

It had been eight weeks since Sam had checked himself out of rehab. Eight weeks of fruitless searching; he and Bobby trailing through towns and cities; calling hospitals, homeless shelters and, god help him, morgues.

No one, it seemed, had seen Sam. And Sam wasn't hard to miss. Dean had lost count of the amount of people he had showed Sam's photograph to and he had lost count of the number of sympathetic glances and soft words of comfort that he had heard.

The worse thing was he blamed himself. Bobby, in his own rough way, had told Dean that he shouldn't, that he had to remember he himself was still rehabilitating, that it was hardly surprising that he had had such a reaction to his memory returning. Dean listened, but he didn't really hear. Sam had been fragile, his own sanity stretched thin and taunt. One push from Dean and Sam had broken and Dean didn't know if he was going to find enough pieces of his baby brother to put back together again.

But there was one other fear; one that he had kept from Bobby and could, only now, admit to himself. He was terrified that Sam had turned again – that he had pushed him right into the welcoming arms of that yellow eyed bastard – that Sam was – even now – wandering through some bum fuck town – killing and maiming everything and everybody in its path.

He pulled out his cell "Bobby?" he tried to keep the panic from his voice "Anything?"

"Nothing" Bobby kept his own voice neutral "It's like he's vanished off the radar Dean – I just don't understand it"

"He didn't even have a car Bobby – how could he have gotten so far so quick?" Dean bit back anger and tears "I don't know what to do" he wasn't ashamed anymore, to admit his weakness "I just want him back"

"I know son" Bobby's tone was quietly comforting "I know – don't you worry – we'll find him – I'm sure – we'll find him"

Dean pulled into the motel lot and sat in the car, staring aimlessly out of the window. It was raining and there was a cold wind blowing. He was now over two hundred miles from Nevada and from the clinic from which Sam had vanished and he was no closer to finding his brother than he had been then. Sam's cell phone was turned off; he had no leads; no hunches; no clue. He buried his head in his hands "Fuck Sam" he whispered "Where are you?"

The motel receptionist looked up wearily as he entered; going to the pigeon hole to get out the key. She glanced at Dean for a moment and thrust a piece of paper into his hand "Hospital called" she said, abruptly, as way of an explanation "They think they have found your brother"

The ICU room was silent; apart from the incessant bleeping of the monitors. Dean swallowed hard as he sat by Sam's bed, his fingers stroking Sam's wrist, his eyes fixed on Sam's inert body.

Sam's face was a mess; his nose was most certainly broken and there were scratches and contusions all over the pallid skin. One eye was so black and swollen it was impossible to see the pupil, whilst the other was purple and blue. His lips were puffy and he had lost three of his front teeth. His body was not much better, three broken ribs, a fractured skull, a cracked thigh bone and numerous lacerations to the muscle.

"He was found like this" the doctor stared at Dean – sympathy in his eyes - "In a dumpster – outside one of our more tasteful bars" he smiled, ruefully "The cops believe he got into a fight over drugs – he didn't have anything to pay the dealer with – fatal mistake in these parts" he sighed, patting Dean's arm "One of our nurses remembered your visit here a few days ago and still had your brother's picture on file – although – state he was in when we got him here – he was very hard to identify"

"Will he…will he be ok?" Dean hated the way his voice wavered, hated the weakness

"The outside wounds are just scratches on the surface – internally he is a mess – his system is shot to hell – he was high when they attacked him and we couldn't even operate on him till we had gotten all the drugs and alcohol out of his system" the doctor paused, letting Dean take it all in "I won't lie to you Mr Winchester – your brother is going to need long term care and rehabilitation – it could take months – even a year – to get him back to anything close to normal"

"Normal huh?" Dean's laughter was forced and a little choked "I'll settle for that Doc – cos that is really all he's ever wanted to be"

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

**Where are you? **

**Chapter Fourteen**

Dean is in position; He sits uncomfortably on the hospital chair, wriggling to try and get into a comfortable spot, his legs aching, his ass cheeks numb.

His fingers are stroking, gently, over Sammy's wrist. His brother is still, too still and he hasn't yet shown any signs of regaining consciousness. The doctors are positive, they explain that Sam's body needs time to heal, that the longer he lays still and quiet, the better chance he will have to recover.

The bruises are healing and the scars fading but Sam's face is still blue and swollen; his lips puffy and parted. Dean could see the gaps where Sam's front teeth used to be and he wonders, randomly, if their fake insurance might run to bridge work. He knows that Sam might not show it, but he used to be quite vain about his appearance.

He is half dozing when he feels a slight pressure on his fingertips and he jerks back into consciousness suddenly, his eyes immediately focussing on Sam.

He can see the glitter of pupil beneath Sam's bruised and swollen lids. He leans in, peering closer, his eyes searching for something, anything, a reaction of some sort. "Sammy?"

"Dean" Sam's voice is fuzzy, weak and the name sounds smushed and blurry "M'sorry"

"It's ok Sammy" Dean kept his voice neutral "How do you feel?"

"Drink" Sam coughed a little and blood seeped slowly from the corner of his mouth

"Not a wise idea" Dean grinned a little to show that he was teasing "You're not supposed to touch the stuff – remember?"

"Jus – water" Sam groaned "Please"

Dean filled up a beaker with water and placed a soft straw in the top. He leant over his brother and slotted the straw as gently as possible into his abused mouth "Take your time there" he spoke softly, stroking the back of Sam's neck. Sam sucked slowly; his throat working and Dean continued to hold him, his fingers gently tangling in Sam's too long hair.

Dean watched his brother. He was silently overjoyed that Sam had regained consciousness, but he was worried that his brother was broken beyond repair. "Hey Sammy" Dean ran a finger over Sam's cheek "Hang on in there ok"

"Hurts" Sam stared at his brother, his dark eyes so filled with pain that Dean felt his breath hitch and his heart pound

"I know bro – you were beaten up pretty bad"

"Own fault" the only indication that Sam was trying to smile was the dent on a dimple on his swollen cheek "Too drunk too know better"

"I thought you were done with all that Sammy" Dean swallowed hard

"You – sent me away – all this – m'fault"

"No Sammy – I – I – when the memories came back it was just hard dude – I had to cope with it – I just over reacted is all"

"Need you" Sam's voice was weak, childlike and Dean felt his heart contract again, hot tears welling up in his throat, a hard, painful lump.

The 'old' Dean – the Dean he now remembered – the Dean he had always been – would have brushed off that simple statement. The 'old' Dean would have rejected a possible 'chick flick' moment, would have told Sammy to 'suck it up'. The 'old' Dean would have cared inside but outside he would have maintained his 'game face', supported physically but not emotionally. The 'new' Dean was a different animal, the 'new' Dean wanted nothing more that to cling on to his brother, hug him, hold him, keep him grounded and protected. He stared down at Sam – at the ravaged battered face, the swollen pleading eyes and he choked back on a sob, his hands reaching out and clutching Sam's shoulders, feeling them shake under his own, none too steady, hands. "I need you too Sammy" he ground out "But I need my old geek boy Sam – I need the Sam that will ride shotgun – I need the Sam that'll always have my back – I want my old Sam back – what do you think?"

"Demon?" Dean saw the fear in his brother's eyes and he shook his head

"I'm back now Sammy – he ain't gonna get you as long as I'm around – I've got you Sammy – I ain't going anywhere – I swear to you"

"Dean" Sam's eyes were growing heavy and Dean let the grip on Sam's shoulders loosen "Stay with me"

"Always Sammy" that he could do "Always"

Sam chewed on his food gingerly; drool staining his chin. Dean suppressed a smile and launched himself forward; stealing a fry from his brother's plate "You'll be on steak before you know it bro"

"Jerk" Sam swallowed, his throat contracting painfully

"Bitch" Dean shot back and Sam smiled, the gap in his teeth making him look, absurdly, like a naughty schoolboy

"My bridge should be ready next week" Sam picked at his food, trying to sort out the softest morsel on the plate "I'll be able to bite you then"

"You could give me a nasty suck in the meantime bro" Dean stole another fry, dipping it into the tomato mush on Sam's plate "Now eat up – you ain't getting out of here till you've put on some more weight – so its up to you"

"You don't have to spend every day here with me" Sam smiled again, his eyes bright "I mean – you must be bored out of your brain"

"Nowhere else I need to be Sammy" Dean grinned "Eat your mush and shut up"

It had been almost two months and Sam was looking better. The bruises had all but faded and the various tears and breaks were healing well. Sam was on strong medication to control the shakes and he was also on a strict diet, with plenty of proteins and vitamins to help his body to recover. The doctor's prognosis was improving daily – but there was still the sticky issue of Sam returning to rehab and Dean knew that his brother was desperate not to go back there again.

Dean knew that he still had unresolved issues and needed some form of rehabilitation too. They had tried friends and they had tried the best clinic that they could afford. He huffed – it seemed that the Winchesters didn't do rehabilitation. From his newly formed memories, it appeared that the Winchesters didn't do hugging or emoting or heart to hearts. God they needed help, he needed help, Sam needed help. But where were they going to go? Who was going to help them?

Dean sighed; Sam had nearly finished eating now and was quietly wiping the drool away from his face; running his tongue along his gums and wincing. All of a sudden, Dean understood everything, understood why Sam clung so tightly to him, understood why Sam had taken him to the Grand Canyon to recover, understood why he wanted to hold Sam, why Sam wanted to hold Dean.

If the Winchesters were going to recover they really only needed one thing; Each other.

TBC


	15. Chapter 15

**Where are you? **

**Chapter Fifteen**

The Impala rumbles beneath him; the sky above him blue and cloudless. Rock music pounds out of the speakers and Dean winds down his window and lets the warm breeze play across his face.

He glances across at Sam. His brother is awake, his own face turned to the sun. Sam looks a little better; he has his bridge and his teeth are white and even again. The bruising on his face is almost gone, but his skin is still too pale, his body too thin. Sam still shakes and Dean can see his fingers struggle with the medication bottle that the hospital gave him

"Want a hand with that?" his voice is careful, calm. Sam is like a bomb, likely to go off at any moment; he is fragile, delicate, lacking in the strength and resolve that Dean related to Sam.

"I'm good" Sam half smiled and ran his tongue across his teeth; a habit he seemed to have gotten into since the insertion of his bridge "Dean – where are we going?"

"We're going on a road trip Sam" Dean narrowed his eyes, looking for his turn off

"We shouldn't…" Sam turned to look at him, his voice hesitant "We shouldn't be hunting Dean"

"We're not hunting Sam" Dean slowed the car a little, his fingers deftly turning down the music "We're on a road trip"

"Oh" Sam seemed at a loss for words and Dean frowned as his brother turned his attention back to the open road.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea; so far their attempts at rehabilitation had ended in total and abject failure and that was with professional help. Dean sighed; taking Sam out of hospital and on the road might not have been one of his brightest ideas, but it was all he had left. Both of them were broken now – and it was up to Dean to try and glue the jagged pieces together and hope that he could make everything fit.

The motel was smart; a bit cleaner; a bit more expensive than they were used too. The carpets were clean and the beds were freshly made. There was a welcome pack of candy and fruit on the table and the air conditioning worked. Sam flopped down on one of the beds and took another pill. So far the medication seemed to be controlling the shakes and the withdrawal, but Dean knew that his brother still had a long way to go. He sat down on his own bed and faced Sam "Have you ever actually been to Florida before?"

"No" Sam lay back, his head on the pillow, his eyes closed "Never" he stayed silent for a moment and then opened one eye and looked at Dean "Why are we here now?"

"I thought it might be a good place for – well – to recover" Dean swallowed, wondering what had possessed him to think that this might be a good idea "Have a little vacation"

"Did you give up on Amsterdam then?" Dean saw the slight smile dimple Sam's cheeks and he grinned back

"Didn't fancy flying – and anyway – Europe's pretty cold and rainy right now – we need sunshine –so what better than the sunshine state?"

"Does it still hurt you?" Sam's question was sudden and unexpected "To remember?"

Dean stared hard at his brother; now was not the time for secrets or lies; hell there had been enough of those in their lives and he didn't want to go down that road again "Sometimes" he leant forward and put a hand on Sam's wrist, a gesture of comfort, something he knew his 'old' self would never have done "But – not as much – I'm just finding it hard – you know – to reconcile the 'old' me with the 'new' me"

"I'm not much help" Sam stated "I never meant to go down this road Dean – I'm sorry"

"Don't keep blaming yourself" Dean felt anger rise but forced it down, Sam had enough issues without this one "This wouldn't have happened at all if I had kept my promise"

"To shoot me" Sam's voice shook

"Yeah – because if I'd have done that – well I wouldn't have ended up under a fucking car with no memory and you – you wouldn't be a drug addicted alcoholic – everything would have been just peachy"

"Dean" he heard his brother's voice hitch and he gripped Sam's wrist tighter

"God damn it Sam – what do you think I would prefer? Having things how they were – having all my memories intact – being the 'old' Dean Winchester – hunting demons – fucking waitresses – but not having you! Sam – god – Sammy – I'd rather die than lose you – ok – so we are both fucked up – but at least we are fucked up together"

"Shit" Sam's voice broke and he buried his head in his shaking hands, sobs coming easily "Oh shit"

"Sshhh" Dean leant forward and drew his brother into his arms "its ok Sammy – it's all going to be ok – just let it out – let it go"

"Dean – Dean" his name was like a mantra on Sam's lips and he held on, feeling tears soak his shirt. Maybe things were going to be alright after all.

Dean felt his face redden as the large grey donkey put it's hooves around his waist and nuzzled closer. In front of him, Sam giggled and a camera clicked "Dean – come on man – let Eeoyre hug you"

"Sam..." Dean felt his own laughter bubble and he let the furry creature come closer "This is so not cool"

"It may not be cool" Sam grinned and Dean felt his heart lift as he saw the brightness in his eyes "But this is going to be my phone picture for the next ten years – or so"

Dean hissed and let the giant donkey go; ignoring his brother's laughter "What do you wanna do next Sammy?"

"Space Mountain" Sam sounded breathless and Dean found himself staring at his brother; feeling as if they had regressed twenty years.

Sam looked so much better; his skin was lightly tanned in the Florida sun and the tremors in his hands had ceased. His brother clutched a large furry bear - won on the rifle range – in one hand and a hot dog in the other. Sam was eating again and his jeans looked as if they fit him again, his large frame no longer skin and bone; the flesh beginning to fill out. Most importantly Sam was smiling; no – hell – Sam was laughing. They were reliving their childhood – but this time it has a lot more exciting.

Dean had never liked flying – but when he rode Space Mountain with is brother – he felt that his head was in the clouds and he didn't care – their whole life had been a wild roller coaster ride – why would he want it to stop now?

TBC


End file.
